All Bedlam Courses Past (part thirty-five)

All Bedlam Courses Past

Chapter Two

Avarice Creeping On

(part thirty-five)

Thacker had worked that decade out of Springfield, Illinois; to the Centennial, Indianapolis. He knew the party floggers’ modes of campaign. Along the bridge, finding a lamppost to lean on with the Banner, he ran a quick up-and-down. He could spot nothing suggestive of Rutherford, or of Gremot (the Beacon lately etching that tobacco-man’s squint on the face of a snapping turtle).

He thought his own face would not much distinguish itself here, yet why suppose Rowan had no friends back home? A discreet set-down with an amateur genealogist must stir small notice. But if a Vanguard man had taken Ryan-Neville’s invitation, sponged on Mrs. Buckley’s generosity, before getting the lay of the land…

There could be a little, in this Buckley-Rowan intermingling, or there could be a lot.

The house was a Southern type, flat-roofed, large in detail and small in size. Two stories above ground; one below, rented. Verandas top and bottom. Black bunting on the balustrades—

A touch in advance of the president’s fate. But an old squire might get a head start on his mourning, beat the neighborhood. How you look at things, Thacker told himself.

He expected a negro to open the door, and one did; in suitcoat and plain shirt, not vest and tails. Furniture, old and frequent. Books stacked on the rug. Thacker noted the smell…of dog, and barking behind a closed door. The veneer had had some oiling. South windows heavy-curtained. Light from the street side, more from a glassed door, passage to a back garden.

Thacker gleaned color, meeting eyes. Have to, when you speak, note in private what tells a man feels poor…resents this or doesn’t.

“Mr. Thacker.”

“Weem, sir, that’s my handle.”

He let his voice soar with good cheer, handed over his hat, and showed himself into the parlor. Two elderly men sat cupped in soft cushions, on armchairs facing the grate. Both began a struggle with their sticks.

“I am LeBeau,” the frailer said, giving up. “I have invited a friend from my society, Dr. Quackenbush.”

Thacker’s lips had maintained their sober line through greater provocations. He took an elbow and braced Quackenbush upright for the handshake.

“Honored, sir. Genealogical, is it?”

“Honored, myself. I shall call you Thatcher, however.”

Thacker smiled. The servant carried in a pot of tea and a sliced cake.

“Dusty afternoon!” Thacker said to LeBeau. “Hospitality much appreciated.”

Worthwhile, being a good eater. No one who offers food likes to see a picker. For LeBeau, Thacker made the face of a man in his devotions, and nodded with a sip of tea to Quackenbush.

39

Bedlam

All Bedlam Courses Past (part thirty-six)

(2023, Stephanie Foster)