George Saunders: Lincoln in the Bardo

Then he was through me and I was glad.

Near the front gate stood Mr. Havens, square in that white man’s path, as I had been, but doing, then, something I had not the nerve (nor desire) to do.

mrs. francis hodge

I don’t know what came over me. Never, in that previous place, had I been a rash person. What need had I to be? Mr. Conner, and his good wife, and all of their children and grandchildren were like family to me. Never was I separated from my own wife or children. We ate well, were never beaten. They had given us a small but attractive yellow cottage. It was a happy arrangement, all things considered.

So I don’t know what came over me.

As that gentleman passed through, I felt a kinship.

And decided to stay a bit.

Therein.

So there we were, moving along together, me matching him step for step. Which was not easy. His legs were long. I extended my legs, to match his, and extended all of myself, and we were the same size, and out, upon horseback and (forgive me) the thrill of once again riding a horse was too much, and I–I stayed. Therein. What a thrill it was! To be doing what I wished. Without having been ordered to do so, without having sought anyone’s permission. The ceiling of a lifelong house flew off, if I may put it that way. I knew, of the instant, vast tracts of Indiana and Illinois (full towns in their complete layout and the nature of the hospitality of specific houses therein, though I had never been in either of those places), and came to feel that this fellow — well, my goodness, I will not say what office it seemed to me that he held. I began to feel afraid, occupying someone so accomplished. And yet, I was comfortable in there. And suddenly, wanted him to know me. My life. To know us. Our lot. I don’t know why I felt that way but I did. He had no aversion to me, is how I might put it. Or rather, he had once had such an aversion, still bore traces of it, but, in examining that aversion, pushing it into the light, had somewhat, already, eroded it. He was an open book. An opening book. That had just been opened up somewhat wider. By sorrow. And — by us. By all of us, black and white, who had so recently mass-inhabited him. He had not, it seemed, gone unaffected by that event. Not at all. It had made him sad. Sadder. We had. All of us, white and black, had made him sadder, with our sadness. And now, though it sounds strange to say, he was making me sadder with his sadness, and I thought, Well, sir, if we are going to make a sadness party of it, I have some sadness about which I think someone as powerful as you might like to know. And I thought, then, as hard as I could, of Mrs. Hodge, and Elson, and Litzie, and of all I had heard during our long occupancy in that pit regarding their many troubles and degradations, and called to mind, as well, several others of our race I had known and loved (my Mother; my wife; our children, Paul, Timothy, Gloria; Rance P., his sister Bee; the four little Cushmans), and all the things that they had endured, thinking, Sir, if you are as powerful as I feel that you are, and as inclined toward us as you seem to be, endeavor to do something for us, so that we might do something for ourselves. We are ready, sir; are angry, are capable, our hopes are coiled up so tight as to be deadly, or holy: turn us loose, sir, let us at it, let us show what we can do.

thomas havens

Elson and Litzie had been by the chapel door, listening in.

Now they trot-skimmed over, holding hands.

That little white boy? Litzie said.

Said we are dead, said Elson.

mrs. francis hodge

Goodness, said Mrs. Hodge.

elson farwell

All these years, in our pit, I had treasured up the notion that someday Annalise and Benjamin, my children, would—

Would what? Join me? Someday join me? Here? It was ludicrous.

Suddenly I saw just how ludicrous.

Poor me.

Poor me, all of those years.

They would never join me here. They would age and die and be laid to rest there, in those far-flung locales to which they had been taken (when taken from me). They would not come here. And anyway, why would I want that? I had wanted it, somehow, while I only waited, believing myself paused. But now, now that I—

Now that I knew I was dead, I wanted for them only to go to where they should. Directly there. Wherever that was. And feeling that way, saw that I ought to go there myself.

I looked at Litzie in our old way, as if to say: Lady, what do you think?

I’ll do what you do, Mrs. Hodge, Litzie said. You always been like a mother to me.

mrs. francis hodge

Sad though.

I’d only just got my voice back, and now it was time to leave.

litzie wright

Elson? I said.

No, he said. If such things as goodness and brotherhood and redemption exist, and may be attained, these must sometimes require blood, vengeance, the squirming terror of the former perpetrator, the vanquishing of the heartless oppressor. I intend to stay. Here. Until I have had my revenge. Upon someone.

(Such a dear boy. So proud. So dramatic.)

We are dead, I said.

Here I am, he said. I am here.

I said no more — for if he wished to stay, I would not impede him.

We all must do what we like.

Ready? I said to Litzie.

As if for old times’ sake, she gave me the double-eyed blink, which had always meant: Yes.

mrs. francis hodge

Dear Brother, a post-script — After writing the above went to bed — Some time later woke to sound of horse’s hooves — I summoned Grace & she helped me into the wheeled chair & to the window — And who should be leaving but Mr. L. himself — I swear it — Looking ever so weary & stooped in the saddle as he rode away — I opened the window & shouted down to “good old Manders” to confirm — It was indeed the Pres — What must be the extent of his heartache for him to have come here at this cold & cruel hr of the night?

Now I must have Grace help me back to bed — Am doing my best to summon her only when necessary, as she has been out of sorts with me lately — Always in a bad temper & never jolly with me anymore — as if sick of me, & who could blame her — it is not happy to be at the beck & call of one so immobilized—& I cannot blame her for I recently am having more pain, & my good spirits often compromised — but she is no friend — Of this I must constantly remind myself — She is hired, by us, to care for me — And that is ALL.

Brother, when do you come home? I know you wander for your own purposes — but find it hard to believe you are not lonely — Or perhaps you have charmed some Prairie lady — Your sister is tired & lonely & sick — Do you not love me, do you not wish to see me again? — Pls come home — I do not wish to alarm you — Do not say these things to force you home but feel so poorly lately. Weak & drifting in mind & unable to eat — Is it not right that we who love one another, should be together?

Please come home. I miss you so. And have no real friend here in this place.

Yr loving sister,

Isabelle.

Perkins, op. cit.

As Pres emerged from chapel I hightailed it out of guardhouse to unlock gate Pres went out saying nothing seeming distracted reached over gave my forearm warm squeeze then hopped upon the back of his little horse and I thought whole caboodle might go over on its side but no that little horsehero steeling himself clopped away quite dignified as if he meant to protect Pres’s reputation by acting as if Pres’s feet were not nearly scraping the ground and I tell you Tom that noble nag might have been bearing Hercules or G Washington for all the pride in his step as they disappeared down R Street into chilly night.