Lincoln’s Dreams

over and hit the play button on Broun’s answering machine. There still wasn’t any message.

I tried to call Annie. She didn’t answer. Broun’s cat jumped up on the desk and dipped its head into Broun’s Styrofoam cup and began lapping delicately at the coffee. I put down the phone and picked him up by the back of the neck to throw him off.

“I take it you didn’t think too much of Dr. Stone’s theories,” Broun said from the door.

“No,” I said, depositing the cat on the floor. “Did you?”

“I thought he had some interesting things to say.”

“About Lincoln’s indigestion or about taking a cattle prod to his patients?”

“About the real meaning of Lincoln’s dreams being physical.” He sat down heavily in the leather chair. “And about the persistence of dreaming, how we take a lot of unconnected images and make them into one continuous dream.”

Unconnected images. A carpet slipper, a red wool shirt, a horse with its legs shot off. “I thought it was all a lot of hogwash,” I said.

“Jeff, are you all right? You’ve seemed upset about something ever since you got back from West Virginia.”

“I’m just tired. I haven’t caught up from the trip yet,” I said, and then wondered why I didn’t say. No, I’m not all right, I’m worried sick. That young woman you met at the reception is dreaming things she couldn’t possibly know about. I might not be able to tell Dr. Stone, but I could surely tell Broun.

“Have you been sleeping all right?” He was sitting the way Dr. Stone had sat, his feet flat on the floor and his hands resting on the leather arms of the chair, watching me.

“Sure. Why?”

“I thought maybe you… when Richard called from the Institute and wanted to talk to you, I got the idea that maybe you were a patient of his, and then you asked Dr. Stone all those questions about Elavil causing bad dreams. I thought maybe he’d put you on some kind of tranquilizer.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not taking anything. And I’m not having bad dreams.” But Annie was. And now was the time to tell him, to explain my behavior and Richard’s and tell him about Annie’s dreams. The cat made a flying leap onto the desk and right into Broun’s coffee. I dived for the cup and Broun’s notes at the same time. Broun pushed himself up out of the chair and came over to get the cat. I moved the notes out of the way.

“Broun,” I said, but he had the cat by the scruff of the neck and was putting it out the door. He shut it on its indignant yowl and sat down in the chair again.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said. “I was worried about you. Did you know Lincoln had trouble sleeping? After Willie died? I think he must have almost gone crazy.” He was looking past me now, as if I wasn’t even there. “He had Willie’s body disinterred twice so he could look at Willie’s face, did you know that?”

“No,” I said.

“Poor man. I was thinking about what you said, about dreaming Lincoln’s dreams. That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” I said, thinking of Annie. “It would be terrible,” but it was obvious he didn’t hear me.

“When you were asking all those questions about having Lincoln’s dreams, all I could think of was how wonderful for the book it would be if you were having them,” he said, still not looking at anything.

“For the book? ”

“Imagine, if you were having Lincoln’s dreams, we’d finally know what he really thought, what he really felt. It’s what every writer dreams about.” He slapped the arms of the chair and stood up. “Jeff, I want you to go to California for me.”

“No.”

He was finally looking at me, and his sharp eyes were taking in everything the way they had the night of the reception. “Why not?”

The phone rang. I snatched it up, knocking the cup of coffee flying, wanting it to be Annie and hoping against hope it wasn’t. I didn’t want to talk to her in front of Broun. A minute ago I had wanted to tell him. I still wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t. He thought Dr. Stone had had “some interesting things to say” about how dreams were only unconnected images. He thought it would be wonderful “for the book” if I were having Lincoln’s dreams.

He’s not like Dr. Stone, I told myself, or Richard. He’s never been anything but kind to you. If you tell him about Annie, he’ll be as worried as you are, he’ll do anything he can to help her. Maybe, I thought, and maybe he’ll look at her with his bright little eyes and say, “This is what every writer dreams about.” I couldn’t risk it. Not with Annie.

“Hello,” I said cautiously into the phone.

“Hi, this is Kate from the library. How do you spell ‘prodromic’? I’ve looked through our stuff, and we don’t have a thing on it, so I’m going to call over to the Library of Congress, but I wanted to make sure I was spelling it right. Is it…” She spelled it for me, and I held the phone, hardly listening.

I couldn’t tell him about Annie, but I would have to tell him something. I had to talk him out of sending me three thousand miles away from Annie when she might call anytime, when she might need me.

“That’s the way it’s spelled,” I said to Kate, not knowing whether it was or not: “Thanks.” I hung up and started wiping up the spilled coffee with one of the paper napkins on the tray.

“I’m determined to find out what caused Lincoln’s dreams,” Broun said, still watching me. “There’s a man in San Diego who’s been working on prophetic dreams.”

Broun’s notes were soaked. I blotted them with the napkin.

“I want you to fly out tomorrow and talk to him about Lincoln’s dreams,” he said.

“What about the weather? They said on the radio this morning that the airport was closed.”

“Then you can go the next day.”

“Look, I really don’t see the point of all this running around, I mean, can’t you just call the guy? There’s nothing he can tell me in person that he can’t tell you over the phone, is there?”

“You can watch him while he says it,” Broun said, watching me dab at the sodden notes. “You can tell whether he’s telling the truth or not.”

“And what difference will it make if he is?” I said angrily. “Lincoln’s dead, and this guy won’t know what caused his dreams any more than Dr. Stone or Richard did. No matter how many experts you ask, you’re never going to find out what really caused the dreams. You’ve already got plenty of explanations. Pick the one you like the best. What difference does it make?”

“It made a difference to Lincoln,” he said slowly. “It makes a difference to me.”

“The way it made a difference to you when Lee bought Traveller? You didn’t need to know that. No matter when he bought him, it was before Antietam. But you sent me chasing all over West Virginia looking for bills of sale, and now you want to send me to California on another wild goose chase.”

“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll go myself.”

I looked down at Broun’s notes, afraid my relief would show in my face. The sodden pages were matted together. I tried to peel the top sheet off, and half the page came off in my hand. I looked at it. The ink was blurred so badly I couldn’t read what he had written.

“Look, I just think you should keep a little perspective on things. You got totally wrapped up in The Duty Bound, and look what happened. And now you’re getting obsessed with this.”

“I said I’d go myself, damn it.” He stood up. “Give me the damned notes before you ruin them. And call McLaws and Herndon. Tell them to wait on the galleys. I’m changing another scene.”

“You can’t do that,” I said. “They’ve already set the type. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“I don’t care what you tell them. Tell them I’m obsessed with The Duty Bound. ” He grabbed for the notes, and they tore across without any sound. He yanked the torn pieces out of my hand. “Tell them you think I’m a little tetched in the head like Lincoln was after Willie died. Tell them I want to dig up the body to have one last look at it before it goes to press. Like that crazy Lincoln.”

When I went downstairs to the kitchen to call McLaws and Herndon, he shut the door of his study, and I could hear the uneven stutter of his typing like sniper fire from across the river.