The Norma Gene

by M. E. Roufa

  “Hey!” he yelled, but it was enough leverage to get him up and onto the scooter behind her again. They rolled off just as the other two agents reached their fallen comrades.

  They had reached a more populated part of the tunnels. Norma steered past a pair of cowgirls and a six foot tall man in a tiger suit without a head.

  “Are you sure this is any faster than just running?” Abe asked, as they rounded another turn at a molasses pace.

  “It’s faster than us running,” Norma said. “I don’t know if it’s faster than them running.”

  Apparently the agents didn’t know either. Looking back over his shoulder, Abe saw all four of them now on Segways themselves, and beginning to catch up.

  “Go faster!” Abe said. “Hit the gas!”

  “There is no gas!” Norma yelled back. “I don’t think it goes any faster—try and lean forward more, okay?”

  Abe leaned forward more, his body pressed closer to Norma’s. It worked—they were moving a bit faster. A horn beeped, and a giant bear in a flowered hat and a tutu drove past in a golf cart, nearly tipping them over.

  “Watch where you’re going, assholes!” the bear yelled back at them. Norma and Abe heard a squealing of tires and a burst of more honking as the golf cart reached the group of pursuing agents. They heard a crash and a yell as the bear collided with at least two of the agents. Then the louder crash of several Segways smashing into each other and the concrete walls. Abe looked over his shoulder. Only two pursuers were left.

  Abe leaned as far forward as he can, his frame pushing against Norma in a way that seemed barely legal. But it wasn’t enough—they might as well be horizontal, it wouldn’t add any more momentum.

  “Throw that stupid arm away,” Norma hissed. “You’re poking me.”

  “I don’t have the—oh, right.” Abe responded, straightening his body away from hers as much as he could without reducing their velocity. “I um, got rid of it. The arm. Sorry.”

  She caught the embarrassment in his voice, and decided she really didn’t want to know. Not now, anyhow. “You need to lean more—they’re gaining again!”

  “How’d you learn how to drive this thing, anyway?” Abe asked, doing his best to lean forward more with the upper half of his body while still leaving his lower half aimed backwards.

  “Really bad date,” Norma answered.

  Her tone made it clear he shouldn’t ask any more questions. So did the corridor, which was about thirty feet away from a dead end. This was it. They dismounted the Segway without a word. It wasn’t that there were no more turnoffs they could take (though there weren’t). It wasn’t that there was just a lone stairway heading up, leaving them with no other options besides heading straight back toward certain capture (though there was). It wasn’t that they only had seconds to make a run for it before the men in suits caught up to them (though they were rapidly closing in). It was the big illustrated character waving at them from the entrance to the stairway. With the unmistakable caricatured face of Abraham Lincoln.

  They had no choice. They went up.

  The stairs led to another cinderblock hallway, but this time one that looked familiar to Abe. He was not surprised when the two of them ran through the first unmarked doorway to find themselves in a large storage room with a galley kitchen along one wall, a pair of restrooms with male and female mice waving from their doors, and an abandoned souvenir stovepipe hat.

  “I know this place,” Abe said. “We’re at the exhibition.”

  Norma followed him through the swinging doors into the museum-like hall. It was deserted, the lights out except for the glow of the exit signs, the animatronics stilled. Either history wasn’t he draw they had hoped it would be, or the powers that be had decided that the best way to increase attendance was to limit the hours it was open. Stepping into the darkened room, suddenly surrounded by the slanting shadows of at least a dozen robotic versions of himself, Abe shuddered. The darkened stillness of the Hall of Presidents had been fun, but there had been only one Abe. Seeing himself reflected back at himself in so many different ages and poses—including the famous deathbed scene—was like stepping into a funhouse. It gave him the creeps.

  But it also gave him an idea. “I think we need to split up. If they’re after me, no one will follow you if they see you leaving here alone. And if they’re after you, you can take them back to the store and just give them back the dress, right? They won’t do anything to you if you can prove it was never stolen, right?”

  Norma wasn’t so sure. Tampering with the electronic monitoring device was a punishable offense all by itself, even if she hadn’t done it on purpose. But Shosha would vouch for her honesty. All those years of not stealing from the company might finally pay off. And if all else failed, she could keep the Marilyn costume on. She felt powerful in it—like she could get away with anything.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Hide out for now,” Abe said. “I think I have the animatronic thing down, thanks to you.” He smiled. “For now I’m just going to go back to the old homestead.” He gestured toward the model log cabin. “With all the other Lincolns here to inspect, maybe it won’t occur to them. If you get out—when you get out—” Abe corrected himself quickly, “I need you to do me a favor.”

  He took her through his plan, was pleased to find she thought it might work, and said goodbye. Norma wished him luck.

  “Be safe,” she said.

  “You too.” And then

  Abe leaned back against the fake cabin, looking up at the stars and stripes painted on the ceiling, triumphant. He could feel his heart pounding through him as though it would burst out of his skin. It was incredible, it was delicious, he was the greatest man in the universe having the most profound life-altering mind rush ever experienced.

  Norma had had better.

  54

  Abe decided to spend the rest of the night in the small mockup of Lincoln’s boyhood log cabin. After his similar quarters at the complex, this was less difficult than he otherwise might have found it. The space inside was just large enough for him to stretch out without any parts of him poking out the doorway. There was no furniture—just what turned out to be some trompe l’oeil paintings on the far wall that gave the suggestion of comfortable rustic furnishings. It was a good hiding place for a few hours, Abe thought, but it would be an even better trap. If they didn’t know he was here already, he could do with some sleep. If they did, his options were limited anyhow. With no car, no phone, and no money—why hadn’t he thought to ask Norma for some money?—all he had was the plan he had laid out for Norma. If she could manage to pull it off…

  Abe slept fitfully, shooting awake at every sound. But the pursuing footsteps he dreaded never materialized. As the red dawn light began to filter in through the transom windows of the exhibition hall, Abe stretched and rose. He washed as best he could in the nearest bathroom, pausing with shock at his reflection in the mirror—so much more haggard than he was used to seeing himself, and at the same time (because of that fatigue and the three days’ growth of stubble around his face) so much more like Abraham Lincoln than he had ever seen himself. It felt like looking at yet another old portrait—him but not him, at the same time. Only in this case, the portrait mirrored his movements. It was like seeing a ghost. He stuck his tongue out at the image, only to see President Lincoln razzing him back. Very, very weird. When he got out of here, the first thing he would do would be to dye his hair, or get something pierced, or at least start wearing more leather or Hawaiian shirts. Or all of the above. Anything to keep from having that visceral reaction again.

  If he got out of here.

  Abe wandered back out and through the exhibit, trying not to stop and actually read all of the display placards he couldn’t see the last time he had been here. He wasn’t sure how much time he had, but he was reasonably sure it wasn’t much longer. He wondered where Norma was right then, what she was doing. Whether she made the phone call he suggested, or whe
ther she went right to bed, then woke up and called the cops on him. He thought they connected. There was that amazing kiss. But Marilyn was always an impressive actress.

  Whoa. Abe stopped himself. He couldn’t believe the line of thought he was pursuing. If anyone had no right to compare a person to some past ancestor, it was him. Norma had no more inherent artifice than he had inherent integrity. He hated himself for making the assumption, and knew she would never forgive him for it, if she knew. But at the same time, she, more than anyone else he knew, would understand. He wondered for the millionth time in his life what it would be like to have an identity that didn’t come with so much baggage. To just be yourself. Life would certainly be easier.

  Abe took another tour around the exhibit, looking for something heavy. It wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be. Most of the larger solid props were made of fiberglass or even cleverly painted cardboard. But there in the “Boyhood” diorama was a long-handled coal shovel (complete with basic arithmetic homework scrawled on the back) that looked as though it would do the trick. He hefted the shovel and headed toward the center of the hall.

  So little real time had passed since the last time he had stood before this case, looking at President Lincoln’s rough draft of the Emancipation Proclamation. But he barely recognized the person he was then. The scenes—even his outfit—were almost identical. Yet so much had changed in the interim. He remembered looking at the document with a feeling of connection, and of desire. He had wanted to smash the glass and take it up in his hands, and run away with it. Well, here was his chance. Funny how it wasn’t what he wanted any more.

  He put the shovel down and ran his fingers over the glass vitrine. If there was any way to do this without breaking anything, so much the better. He didn’t see a lock anywhere—could they really have been so trusting, or so uncaring, as to not protect the Proclamation’s safety? He tried lifting the top, or sliding the sides of the case—no luck. There was no lock because it had been fashioned to be solid. It was probably hermetically sealed to keep any particulates in the air from damaging the antique paper. Well, so much for that. Abe lifted up the shovel and closed his eyes. Wincing, he carefully brought the shovel down upon the glass.

  Too carefully. The blade glanced off the top of the case and rebounded, striking Abe above the eye. An alarm began to sound from speakers all around the ceiling. The thing was protected, all right. He took a deep breath and struck the case with the shovel with all his strength. The glass barely cracked, but it was a start. Over and over, Abe pummeled the top of the case with the shovel, until he was finally able to break a sizable enough hole to reach a hand in. The cacophony of the alarm system was joined by the wailing of approaching sirens as Abe emancipated the Proclamation from the case.

  Still grasping the now-battered shovel, Abe slowly made his way to the far end of the room, climbed past the mock proscenium wrapped in red white and blue bunting and up over the twin American flags into the balcony of the Presidential Box of Ford’s Theater. Abe felt something soft brush against his hand and bounce down into the box as he flung himself over the flag-draped railing and into the nearest seat. He leaned down to retrieve it: Lincoln’s stovepipe hat.

  What the hell, Abe thought. He placed it carefully on his head.

  55

  Abe hid in the shadows behind the curtains of the box, looking down at the exhibition hall below. There was no way out from here except back the way he came. There was a door in the rear of the box, in the exact location of the famous door through which the actor John Wilkes Booth appeared to shoot the 16th president during the fateful performance of Our American Cousin, the policeman guarding the door having gone out for a drink. But in this mocked-up version the door led nowhere, only for show. Not that Abe was going anywhere. But it was a comfort to know he couldn’t be ambushed from behind.

  The alarms were shrieking at a level that made thinking impossible, and the faraway sirens grew louder and nearer. Abe felt his heart start to beat at an erratic pace. Did sirens mean ordinary cops, or would they come accompanied by whatever government goons had been after him in the first place? Were all those well-dressed men after them yesterday—there must have a dozen of them, all told—really just after them because of some stolen dress? Was that possible? How much actual danger was he in?

  And if he was in real danger of losing his life, if the stakes were that high, then even if Norma did follow through, would his plan even work? He felt something crush within his hand and looked down at the now crumpled, priceless document he had wrested out of its case. Without realizing it, without thinking at all, he had practically crushed the papers into a ball. It was bad enough he had really done this, taken Lincoln’s rough draft. But to not even have the reverence to treat it as carefully as he did a library book? It was like realizing he had just taken a leak in Duchamp’s urinal. Blushing with embarrassment so pure it felt like pain, Abe sat down in Lincoln’s chair and began smoothing out the creases on the page against his knees. At such an immediate close range it caused actual goose bumps to rise on his skin. He was holding the same piece of paper first held by Abraham Lincoln.

  He traced the words with his fingers, pausing with his eyes closed as his fingertips delineated the words “I Abraham Lincoln, do hereby proclaim.” Words leaped off the page to his attention: “An act to suppress insurrection,” the word “abolition” crossed out and altered to “abolishment.” He caressed the words the way he would a woman’s skin. Such a beautiful piece of writing, both in how it looked and in what it stood for, the words coming straight from Lincoln’s heart and emended by his brains with the purpose of ending real suffering. These were the words about which Lincoln later said, “I never, in my life, felt more certain that I was doing right, than I do in signing this paper.” This was real; this was a real, genuine piece of history. And unless things somehow changed for the better for him, and soon, Abe was going to destroy it.

  The sirens ceased and the lights in the exhibit came up to full power at the same time. He heard doors slamming, feet running. Not too many of them, maybe a couple dozen. Then a combination of police uniforms and dark security guard suits rushed in from all doors, many with guns already out and ready. No one saw him at first, sitting peacefully in his eyrie looking over the entire space. Their ordered ranks dissolved into chaotic searching as they spread out through the labyrinthine displays. In their quest to find him they paid little regard to the exhibits, pushing down explanatory dividing walls to get a clearer line of vision, and knocking over the animatronic figure of an eight-year-old Abraham who then gesticulated wildly on the floor. Abe sat quietly, waiting. He practiced the stillness he had learned from the Hall of Presidents. Maybe they take him for a mannequin and assume he’d left the building. Maybe he could still get away.

  “Hi, Abe.” Abe heard the familiar voice before he saw the familiar figure. Ed stepped out from behind a mock theater curtain. “Nice hat.”

  “Thanks,” Abe said. Something seemed different about Ed in the morning light. He seemed smaller, somehow. Diminished. It took Abe a minute to figure out what was missing: Nita. Ed wasn’t alone. The two burly bodyguards from the complex had accompanied him, bulging with extra lumps in all the places you didn’t want to see lumps. But without Nita’s quietly targeted menace at his side, Ed just seemed like a nerdy professorial guy in an expensive suit. This man had caused him two days of trepidation? Abe looked over his shoulder at the sealed door behind him, half expecting to see Nita’s cocked eyebrow leading the charge from behind, but she didn’t appear.

  “These other agents, they’re all here because of the alarms. Someone here must have tried to steal something. Something valuable, judging from the numbers. Know anything about that?”

  “Maybe,” Abe said. “Maybe not.”

  “Well, they’ll arrest you if you do. Or you could just come with me.”

  “And get my brain sliced up? I think I’d rather take my chances with them.”

  “There he is!” a m
an shouted and a trio of cops rushed over to where Ed was standing. They stopped, seeing Abe in his full Lincoln regalia. They hadn’t expected to be facing an escapee from the Hall of Presidents. Was he even human, or just a particularly good robot? One gave a low whistle. Three guns rose, pointing at Abe’s chest.

  “Come on down, now,” one of them said. “Put your hands up.”

  “Don’t come any closer!” Abe said. He held up the wrinkled document, trying to make it look both incredibly precious and incredibly fragile. “I’ve got the Emancipation Proclamation. The original. If any of you take one more step closer, I’ll destroy it!”

  No one moved.

  “No you won’t, Abe,” Ed said. “I know how much those pieces of paper probably mean to you. I know you know how much they mean to America. You couldn’t do it if you tried.”

  “I can, and I will. I’ll tear it up! I’ll tear it into shreds and then I’ll… I’ll eat them!”

  “Fine,” Ed said. “Do it. Go for it.” He slowly, deliberately took a step closer, the two armed bodyguards following immediately behind.

  “Don’t make me do this!” Abe yelled, desperately hoping they wouldn’t continue to call his bluff. He thought he could do it. He had been steeling himself to the possibility that he might have to do it, that had been his plan from the time he and Norma first opened the door and found themselves within the exhibition hall. But if push looked likely to come to shove, did he honestly have it in himself to rip up such a fundamental piece of history?

  The guards took another step forward, toward the box. They were only a few steps away from being able to climb right up next to him. Time was running out. Ed lifted his hands like he was holding an imaginary knife and fork and began making eating gestures, daring him to do it.

  “This isn’t just some copy!” Abe yelled down. “I’m not faking it! This is the real thing!”