George Saunders: Lincoln in the Bardo

hans vollman

We had come to apologize.

roger bevins iii

For our cowardice at the time of her initial doom.

hans vollman

Which had always, in every minute since, gnawed at us.

roger bevins iii

Our first huge failing.

hans vollman

Our initial abandonment of the better nature we had brought with us from that previous place.

roger bevins iii

Standing outside the burning car, I called in.

Can you hear me, dear? I shouted. There is something we wish to say.

hans vollman

The train shifted a bit on its tracks, and flames leapt up, and several of the hogs who had caused the crash turned to us and, in a beautiful American dialect that came out of their perfectly formed human faces, told us, in no uncertain terms, that she could not and would not be saved, and hated it all, and hated us all, and if we did, indeed, care for her, why not leave her alone, for our presence aggravated her already considerable torment, reminding her, as it did, of the hopes she had held in that previous place, and of who she had been upon first arriving here.

roger bevins iii

A spinning young girl.

hans vollman

In a summer frock of continually shifting color.

roger bevins iii

We are sorry, I shouted in. Sorry that we did not do more to convince you to go, back when you still had the chance.

We were afraid, Mr. Bevins said. Afraid for ourselves.

Anxious, I said. Anxious that we might fail in our endeavor.

We felt we must conserve our resources, Mr. Bevins said.

We are sorry this happened to you, I said.

You did not deserve it, Mr. Bevins said.

And sorry, especially, that we did not stay to console you, as you went down, I said.

You did rather slink away, said one of the hogs.

hans vollman

Mr. Vollman’s face contorted with the memory.

Then something changed, and he looked strong and vital, like the man he must have been in his shop, a man who would not have slunk away from much of anything at all.

And sped through his various future-forms:

A beaming fellow in a disordered bed, the morning after he and Anna would have consummated their marriage (she gleefully threw her head upon his chest, and reached between his legs, eager to begin again);

A father of twin girls, who looked like paler, smaller Annas;

A retired printer with bad knees, helped along a boardwalk by that same Anna, older now herself but still beautiful, and as they went along, they spoke confidentially back and forth, somewhat habitually, not always agreeing, in a code that seemed to have developed between them, about the twins, now mothers themselves.

Mr. Vollman turned to me, smiling in a pained but kindly way.

None of that ever was, he said. And it never will be.

Then he drew a deep breath.

And stepped into the burning train.

roger bevins iii

I could see Miss Traynor there, in what had been the dining car, her face clearly visible within the striped lavender wallpaper.

hans vollman

Younge Mr Bristol desired me, younge Mr Fellowes and Mr Delway desired me, of an evening they would sit on the grass around me and in their eyes burned the fiercest kindest Desire.

It was all very

Then Mother would send Annie to come and

I want ed so much to hold a dear Babe.

You might sir

You might sire do me a service A great service

I know very wel I do not look as prety as I onseh.

You might try

Might at least try

Do it here. Do it now Wont you

Blow this fuk cok ass ravage train up. Sir.

With yr going

If you pls It mite free me Dont know Cant say for sure

But have been so unhappy here so long.

elise traynor

I will try, I said.

hans vollman

From within the train came the familiar yet always bone-chilling firesound of the matterlightblooming phenomenon.

The train began to vibrate, the hogs to squeal.

I threw myself down on the good and blessed earth, soon to be mine no more.

The train exploded. Seats rained down, hog-parts rained down, menus rained down, luggage, newspapers, umbrellas, ladies’ hats, men’s shoes, cheap novels rained down.

Rising to my knees I saw that, where the train had been, was now only the dreaded iron fence.

And there was nothing left for me to do, but go.

Though the things of the world were strong with me still.

Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-tilted streetlight; a frozen clock, bird-visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; toweling off one’s clinging shirt post — June rain.

Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth.

Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease.

A bloody roast death-red on a platter; a hedgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse.

Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded.

The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger.

Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead.

Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it.

Loon-call in the dark; calf-cramp in the spring; neck-rub in the parlor; milk-sip at end of day.

Some bandy-legged dog proudly back-ploughs the grass to cover its modest shit; a cloud-mass down-valley breaks apart over the course of a brandy-deepened hour; louvered blinds yield dusty beneath your dragging finger, and it is nearly noon and you must decide; you have seen what you have seen, and it has wounded you, and it seems you have only one choice left.

Blood-stained porcelain bowl wobbles face down on woodfloor; orange peel not at all stirred by disbelieving last breath there among that fine summer dust-layer, fatal knife set down in passing-panic on familiar wobbly bannister, later dropped (thrown) by Mother (dear Mother) (heartsick) into the slow-flowing, chocolate-brown Potomac.

None of it was real; nothing was real.

Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear.

These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth.

And now must lose them.

I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant.

Goodbye goodbye good—

roger bevins iii

Caroline and Matthew and Richard and I lay entangled there in our spot near the flagpole: my part to Caroline’s mouth, her rear to Richard’s part, Matthew’s part to my rear, Caroline’s part being shared by Matthew’s mouth and my extended stroking middle finger.

mr. leonard reedy

Seems we’d missed the big excitement.

mrs. caroline reedy

Having been engaged in some excitement of our own.

richard crutcher

But then, the noise of the many matterlightblooming phenomena growing annoying—

mrs. caroline reedy

We men became flaccid.

mr. leonard reedy

Making further excitement problematic.

mrs. caroline reedy

Me and Richard and Mr. Reedy hiked up our pants and Mrs. Reedy re-did her skirt and blouse and we rushed over along the fenceline toward that other (lesser) excitement.

matthew crutcher

En route we glimpsed Mr. Bevins—

mrs. caroline reedy

Damned nance.

richard crutcher