The Habit of Art: Best Stories from the Indiana University Fiction Workshop

Three Parting Shots and a Forecast

THREE PARTING SHOTS AND A FORECAST [129] Three Parting Shots and a Forecast CHRISTIE HODGEN John Wilkes Booth HIS PICTURE A three-quarter shot, Booth leering just left of center, casual, as if turning toward someone who has called his name. No doubt a beautiful heiress, an adoring fan. He has a devil’s ear, angled tight and sharp against his head, and his hair is brushed into nonchalant curls. Dark-eyed with eggshell skin, he wears a black moustache combed into a frown. At the time of the picture Booth is one of the most celebrated young actors in Washington City, and he dresses the part. He models a loose jacket, cut in the latest fashion, its collar and breast pocket trimmed with silk thread. The top button is fastened , and the rest of the jacket falls open in a triangle like a teepee. The pocket sprouts a starched handkerchief. His right hand, fat and smooth as a baby’s, props a delicate bamboo walking stick. A small brass key dangles from his vest’s middle button. (A remembrance? A safe-deposit box? The door to his room? No one is sure.) A gold ring wraps the little finger of his left hand, which grips the handle of something resembling a whip. He is a gentleman, a gentleman. CHRISTIE HODGEN [130] It is a good time for actors. The President himself attends the theater with some frequency. Theater-going is a pleasant diversion, and Lincoln’s only opportunity to nap in peace. The President’s box hovers twelve feet over stage left, and is about the size and shape of Lincoln’s childhood log home. It seats four comfortably, five in a pinch. The President lounges in a distinctive rocking chair. It is one of Lincoln’s favorite places, cozy and warm as a cradle. Imagine, one evening, that Lincoln has trouble dozing off. A loony Hamlet trots underfoot. The actor’s interpretation requires a certain amount of gymnastics. It is a promenade of leaping and screeching. “TO BE!” Booth booms, looks skyward, drops to one knee, rolls onto his back. “OR NOT TO BE!” He clutches the open neck of his shirt and howls. Booth turns a cartwheel and decides on the question. The crowd loves him. Perhaps they find his aerobics refreshing in such solemn times. What’s a play these days anyway but a moment’s distraction? Who wants to look death too plainly in the face? The President decides to sleep out the rest of the performance, chin slumped on his chest. Just then, Booth steals a glance at the shadowed figure. Asleep! In the middle of his soliloquy! He stops for a moment, stumbles on the verse. Lincoln’s legs are outstretched— propped on the banister—and the giant, scuffed soles of his shoes face the stage like twin hecklers. Imagine living under the reign of such an unmannered buffoon. Booth decides, then and there, to take some kind of action. Curiously, as the play wears on, Booth’s performance improves. The audience remarks how distressed and convincing he is, as if he were really and truly at odds with an unrightful king. Lincoln wakes rested as the lights come up. It is his best sleep in weeks. There is little rest for Booth after his plan begins to materialize . During the first months of 1865, Booth dreams—nightly—his own set of tragedies. They take different forms. The worst of the lot occurs on stage. Just as he has the crowd in his grip, just as he works THREE PARTING SHOTS AND A FORECAST [131] Hamlet or Romeo or King Lear into the most innovative and tortured interpretation of the century, the crowd howls with laughter. The gas lights jet up, flickering blue and then white. He sees people twisting in their chairs, the men clutching their stomachs, the women covering their faces with gloved hands. Booth checks to see that his fly is buttoned. “What!” he demands, stomping a foot. “Blast!” Booth likes to curse in the manner of all true southern gentleman—forcefully , but with restraint. The audience can’t seem to get ahold of itself. Booth storms toward the curtain, bats at it to split the seam so he can slip off stage. But the curtain is stitched together at its center, and only sways from the rafters like a bemused spirit. The theater takes on the look...