The Evil B.B. Chow & Other Stories by Steve Almond

plate.”
    â€œEngraved?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat, then, is to keep a thief from stealing these plates? Or one of your staff from printing extras?”
    Chase stares at him, unsure what to say. “But there are safeguards,” he stammers.
    Lincoln shakes his head. “This thing frightens me,” he murmurs. “Not even our names are kept authentic any longer.”
    L INCOLN RESTS HIS weight on the long pole, lets the boat drift. His eyes settle on Douglass. They are the color of bog peat. “Tell me about slavery.”
    â€œWhat is there to tell?” Douglass says impatiently. He is seated at his desk, endeavoring to compose his memoirs.
    â€œWhat did you eat?”
    â€œCornbread. Salt pork. Whatsoever they gave us.”
    â€œWhen you say ‘they’?”
    Douglass continues scribbling. His plume bobs like a cock’s wattle.
    â€œAnd this talk of corporeal punishment, privations?”
    Douglass offers no response.
    Lincoln gazes out at the river, at the silvered eddies, and chuckles in a manner he hopes will provoke Douglass’s interest. “I am reminded here of the one-legged Paducah planter. It seems he seeded his main acres with orchard rye, hoping to corner the market, leaving only a small patch for cotton. That season an early frost came, and our poor Paducah Joe was left without recourse—”
    â€œLincoln.” Douglass holds his pen aloft. “If you might.”
    Lincoln gives his long pole a sullen yank.
    â€œI rather like corn bread.”
    D OUGLASS RETURNS TO the White House. Lincoln has aged a decade. His cheeks look like butcher paper, torn just beneath the eyes. “I have some concerns about the course of the conflict. Your people are not coming to us in the numbers I had hoped, Douglass.” His tone is that of a peevish schoolmaster.
    â€œThey are trapped, Mr. President. Surely you can see.”
    â€œI want you to devise some way to bring them into our lines. Would you do that for me, Douglass? A band of scouts, perhaps?”
    â€œI am hardly the man—”
    â€œWe will give you guns, Douglass. And rations and some pay.”
    â€œI very much doubt—”
    â€œAnd morphine, Douglass. Morphine for the injured.”
    â€œH OW IS IT that you navigate this vessel?” Douglass says.
    Lincoln has angled his body against the long pole. With his face upturned, his eyes closed, and the sun beating down, he looks, from this certain angle, like a large, sleepy turtle. “Navigate?” he says.
    â€œYes. Is there some rudder device, some means of control?”
    Lincoln laughs. “The river is like history,” he says. “And the flatboat is like a man’s life. He can move about in the current, work the pole toward certain intended effects. But he is taken, finally, where the river wishes to take him.”
    â€œAnd where is that, Mr. President?”
    â€œTo the sea, Douglass, the deep and final sea.”
    L INCOLN ’ S SECRETARY POKES his head in the doorway. “Governor Buckingham of Connecticut,” he says.
    â€œTell Governor Buckingham to wait,” Lincoln snaps. “I want to have a long talk with my friend Frederick Douglass.”
    Douglass blushes. “Really, Mr. President. I am certain the governor—”
    â€œHush, Douglass. I have no end of Buckinghams. That is why they keep me in this grand house. So the Bucking-hams of the world know where to find me. Now then,” Lincoln says, “we were discussing scouts. A band of them.”
    S OUTH OF B URLINGTON , Lincoln purchases a flask of whiskey from a passing gambling barge. Douglass, embarrassed, tries to hide beneath his desk.
    â€œSay, is that Frederick Douglass?”
    â€œNo sir.” Lincoln moves to shield his companion from view.
    â€œBack away, you oaf. Let me see. But what other man could appear so god-awful? Look at his nose! Like a wedge of moldy cheese. Say there,