Tomb With a View

“I remember now,” he said, drawing in a labored breath. “It was in those steamy days of September. I lay on my deathbed, weak and delirious, haunted by my past, my mistakes.” He swallowed hard. “My regrets. I was so much in the throes of emotion and pain, I could hardly think straight. I called . . .” He passed a hand over his eyes. “I called to Jeremiah Stone for paper and ink. I intended . . . I intended . . .” The president stumbled back toward the center of the rotunda, and when he did, the scenery around us shivered and shifted. I fully expected to see that we were back in that White House office, but instead, I found myself standing in a spacious, neat cottage. There was a window opposite from where I stood, and through it, I saw a sweep of beach and, beyond that, the slow rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean. No way I was as much of a Garfield fanatic as Marjorie, but at this point, even I knew enough about the president to know where I was: at Long Branch Beach along the Jersey shore, the place where President Garfield died.

I was alone, or at least I thought I was until I saw a movement underneath the blankets of a nearby bed.

“Stone! Stone!” Even though it was breathless and thready, I recognized the president’s voice. When I stepped closer to the bed, though, I realized I wouldn’t have recognized him as the man under the blankets. Not for all the world.

His skin was gray. His eyes were sunken. He was at least a hundred pounds lighter than the robust ghost who haunted the memorial.

“Stone!” Even as I watched, the president shifted in bed. A spasm of pain crossed his face. His skin was slick with sweat. His eyes were glassy. “Stone, I must write a letter!”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

A door over on my right opened, and as efficient as ever, Jeremiah Stone marched into the room, the ever-present portfolio in his hands. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. President,” he said, as oblivious of me now as he’d always been. “I was just discussing a certain matter with Mr. Windom, your secretary of the Treasury.”

“All is . . .” Another spasm of pain crossed his face, and the president closed his eyes against it, then opened them again. He wasn’t about to let that stop him. Though it obviously hurt, he sat up, and Stone shifted the pillows behind him. “All is well, isn’t it? There are no . . . no . . .”

“No problems of national import. No, sir, certainly not.” Stone adjusted the glasses pinched to the bridge of his nose. “It was nothing more than a trivial thing we discussed and I regret leaving your side so that I might attend to it. What can I get for you, sir?”

“Paper.” The president’s voice was so small and shallow, Stone had to lean closer to hear. “Paper and ink. I would . . . I would like to write a letter.”

“Certainly.” There was a table next to the bed, and Stone set his portfolio down on it. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out one of those old-fashioned fountain pens, and set that down, too, before he backed toward the door. “I have no blank paper with me, sir, but I will get some for you. I will be back in just a moment. And when I do return, sir . . .” Stone’s gaze darted to the portfolio. “There are papers that must be signed, sir. I know it is inappropriate of me to insist so strongly when you are so discommoded, but really, sir, we must get these out of the way before—”

Realizing what he’d almost said, Stone blanched.

The president reassured him with a wheezing chuckle. “I do not hold it against you for nearly saying the words no one else dare speak, Stone. You are an honorable and efficient aide to me, and I cannot fault you for verbalizing the truth. You wish me to sign these papers before I pass into a better place. That is true, is it not?”

Stone nodded.

“We will take care of it when you return,” the president assured him. “For now, if you might bring me that writing paper . . .”

Stone disappeared, but honestly, I don’t think the president even noticed. For a minute, he was so still and quiet, I thought he might have died. But then he sighed, and like a sleepwalker, he groped toward the bedside table, reached into the portfolio, and drew out a piece of paper. Slowly and carefully, he began to write.

My dearest Lucia . . .

I watched him write out each word, pausing now and then to fight for a breath or reposition himself in bed.

“. . . as are my other sons,” he mumbled as he wrote, and his strength gave out. The pen dropped out of his hand and onto the blankets. The letter fluttered under the bed.