roughly made, representing a steamboat. A ticket on it read, Model of sinking and raising boats by bellows below. A. Lincoln, May 30, 1849. Hank spoke up, his voice very loud this time in the immense quiet of the Model Room. He was a builder, too.
“Is that it?” Walt said. “Is that what you require?”
“No,” Gob said. “But it is related to the thing I require. Ah, there it is.” With very little ado—he only cranked his arm back a little—he put his elbow through the case next to the one containing Mr. Lincoln’s boat. He reached in and removed a hat, which he immediately set on his head.
“It’s a crime!” Walt said. “It’s a crime what you did!” But he didn’t say it very loud, and in fact he found the vandalism somehow exciting. He had the old thrill back—the buzzing in his soul like Olivia’s frantic wings, and he did not know if it was the crime, or proximity to Gob, or the drunkenness that caused it. He lit another match and held it near the tag that dangled from the brim of the hat. Hat worn by Abraham Lincoln , it read, on the night of his assassination.
“There,” said Gob. “Now my thinking is much improved.” He put his hands on his face and was silent awhile. Walt closed his eyes too, and saw sick and wounded boys laid out on cots between the glass cases, saw blood gleaming by gaslight on the polished marble floor. When Walt opened his eyes again, Gob had turned back to the broken case.
“Look!” Gob said. “I need that, too!” He reached in, to another shelf, and removed a length of cable. He pushed it in Walt’s face and rubbed it against his cheek, asking, “Do you know what this is? It’s the Atlantic Cable. The thing itself!”
“A crime,” Walt said. As if at his call, a guard came at last, and found them. He called out, “Hey there!” Gob took Walt’s hand and ran, pulling him along, dragging him and lifting him painfully by one arm, so fast and smooth Walt wasn’t quite sure if their feet were touching the ground. They ran toward the guard and knocked into him, sending him sprawling as a train might send an unlucky cow sailing over a pasture. Walt heard him land with an oof and a curse, and then they were flying down the stairs, Walt stumbling at every step and Gob bearing him up.
Did they go after that to Ford’s Theatre? Walt was never sure, and later when he asked Gob, he’d only get a shrug for an answer. It was like remembering something through a great space of water. Walt was thinking they would go into the theater and embrace in the spot where Lincoln had died. Their marvelous passion would go out from them in waves, transforming time, history, and destiny, unmurdering Lincoln, unfighting the war, unkilling all those six hundred thousand, who would be drawn from death into the theater, where they would add their strong arms to the world-changing embrace, until at last a great historic love-pile was gathered in Washington City, a gigantic pearl with Gob and Walt the sand at its center.
But the box was gone. The whole theater had been gutted and refitted as a medical museum. Gob led Walt up a spiral staircase from the first floor, which was cluttered with clerks’ desks, past the second floor, a library, to the top of the building.
The third floor was filled with hideous curiosities, testaments to the ways in which human flesh is heir to misery. At the top of the stairs, Walt was greeted by a row of jars containing heads that looked, because they were near a window, to be suspended in moonlight. Three Maori heads from New Zealand grinned at him as he walked towards them. He bent down to look at their empty eye sockets, their cheeks striped with betel-juice tattoos, their glowing white teeth. Nearby, there were tumors piled like candy in a jar. Walt had a perverse notion that he and Gob would go bobbing for them like apples. He turned away from the tumors and considered all the bones—they hung from the ceiling in complete or partial skeletons.
“Is that it?” Walt said. “Is that what you require?”
“No,” Gob said. “But it is related to the thing I require. Ah, there it is.” With very little ado—he only cranked his arm back a little—he put his elbow through the case next to the one containing Mr. Lincoln’s boat. He reached in and removed a hat, which he immediately set on his head.
“It’s a crime!” Walt said. “It’s a crime what you did!” But he didn’t say it very loud, and in fact he found the vandalism somehow exciting. He had the old thrill back—the buzzing in his soul like Olivia’s frantic wings, and he did not know if it was the crime, or proximity to Gob, or the drunkenness that caused it. He lit another match and held it near the tag that dangled from the brim of the hat. Hat worn by Abraham Lincoln , it read, on the night of his assassination.
“There,” said Gob. “Now my thinking is much improved.” He put his hands on his face and was silent awhile. Walt closed his eyes too, and saw sick and wounded boys laid out on cots between the glass cases, saw blood gleaming by gaslight on the polished marble floor. When Walt opened his eyes again, Gob had turned back to the broken case.
“Look!” Gob said. “I need that, too!” He reached in, to another shelf, and removed a length of cable. He pushed it in Walt’s face and rubbed it against his cheek, asking, “Do you know what this is? It’s the Atlantic Cable. The thing itself!”
“A crime,” Walt said. As if at his call, a guard came at last, and found them. He called out, “Hey there!” Gob took Walt’s hand and ran, pulling him along, dragging him and lifting him painfully by one arm, so fast and smooth Walt wasn’t quite sure if their feet were touching the ground. They ran toward the guard and knocked into him, sending him sprawling as a train might send an unlucky cow sailing over a pasture. Walt heard him land with an oof and a curse, and then they were flying down the stairs, Walt stumbling at every step and Gob bearing him up.
Did they go after that to Ford’s Theatre? Walt was never sure, and later when he asked Gob, he’d only get a shrug for an answer. It was like remembering something through a great space of water. Walt was thinking they would go into the theater and embrace in the spot where Lincoln had died. Their marvelous passion would go out from them in waves, transforming time, history, and destiny, unmurdering Lincoln, unfighting the war, unkilling all those six hundred thousand, who would be drawn from death into the theater, where they would add their strong arms to the world-changing embrace, until at last a great historic love-pile was gathered in Washington City, a gigantic pearl with Gob and Walt the sand at its center.
But the box was gone. The whole theater had been gutted and refitted as a medical museum. Gob led Walt up a spiral staircase from the first floor, which was cluttered with clerks’ desks, past the second floor, a library, to the top of the building.
The third floor was filled with hideous curiosities, testaments to the ways in which human flesh is heir to misery. At the top of the stairs, Walt was greeted by a row of jars containing heads that looked, because they were near a window, to be suspended in moonlight. Three Maori heads from New Zealand grinned at him as he walked towards them. He bent down to look at their empty eye sockets, their cheeks striped with betel-juice tattoos, their glowing white teeth. Nearby, there were tumors piled like candy in a jar. Walt had a perverse notion that he and Gob would go bobbing for them like apples. He turned away from the tumors and considered all the bones—they hung from the ceiling in complete or partial skeletons.
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