moment.
The clerk hardly looked up as he checked in and took his cash; he had no credit cards and would stay for only one night. Even the request for room 222 hadn’t phased the clerk. Room clerks, Remington had learned, were totally disconnected and indifferent. He signed the card: The Rev. C. J. Guiteau. It was a title his precursor had once assumed.
In the room the air conditioning coughed and sputtered and he could sniff the vague scent of disinfectant. At the writing desk he took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and began to recompose the letter that had pulsed in his memory.
“The President’s tragic death was a sad necessity, but it will unite the Republican party and save the Republic. Life is a fleeting dream and it matters little when one goes. A human life is of small value . . .” He paused, studying the words, proud of the flourish of his handwriting; he felt waves of delicious excitement beginning at the base of his spine, radiating out. The exquisite power of it transcended everything, the room with its pedestrian furnishings, the immediacy of time, the other reality of himself. Addressing the envelope to himself as Remington, he sealed and stamped the letter.
He slept like a baby, a leaden, dreamless sleep, and wakened ravenously hungry. He showered, shaved and carefully applied his wig, moustache and straggly beard. He put on khaki pants, a khaki shirt and workman’s shoes. He moved close to the smiling image in the mirror.
“I am a stalwart of the stalwarts,” he whispered, watching his breath patterns on the glass.
Once more he checked the revolver, making sure that the cartridges were in their proper places. He buffed the pearl handle against his pants, then pointed the gun toward his image in the dresser mirror.
“The President’s nomination was an act of God. His election was an act of God. His removal is an act of God.”
He felt a tingle of pleasure in his crotch, then put the gun in his left hip pocket. He must, he knew, follow the pattern exactly, as Guiteau had done on that fateful morning.
The air was still crisp, but the sun was already a brilliant glow behind the Capitol in the distance as he walked leisurely through the deserted streets, past the East Gate of the White House in which the President and his family slumbered peacefully. An occasional car passed by on Pennsylvania Avenue. Posting the letter in a mailbox, he crossed to Lafayette Park and sat down on one of the benches facing the White House. The sun, rising quickly now, threw long columnar shadows along the front portico. A spark of light caught the hanging brass lamp, transforming it into a burst of glitter. The panes shimmered like still waters as the sun’s rays washed over them.
Stretching, he put his legs in front of him, felt the reassuring weight of the gun and looked about, gratified that he was, except for the squirrels and pigeons, the only living figure in the park. When a bum who might have just risen out of the shrubbery sat on a nearby bench, he left and walked back to the hotel. He had a leisurely breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee and read the Washington Post .
What did Guiteau read ninety-nine years ago to this day? What was Guiteau’s state of mind? Had he found the hole of delicious calm, the eye of a hurricane? Had the newspapers told him that the vigorous, bearded ex-soldier would take off for the July Fourth weekend to escape the oppressive heat of the capital?
“More coffee?” a waitress asked politely.
He nodded, studying her as she walked away, annoyed by the patched imperfections of her net stockings. It was the first sour note of the morning. Abruptly he paid the check and left, determined to recapture the symmetry of the illusion.
By nine o’clock, he had parked the Volkswagen in a tight corner of a construction site where the workers parked their cars. He checked the hard hat stored on the back seat, patted the gun in his left hip pocket and set off for the mall
The clerk hardly looked up as he checked in and took his cash; he had no credit cards and would stay for only one night. Even the request for room 222 hadn’t phased the clerk. Room clerks, Remington had learned, were totally disconnected and indifferent. He signed the card: The Rev. C. J. Guiteau. It was a title his precursor had once assumed.
In the room the air conditioning coughed and sputtered and he could sniff the vague scent of disinfectant. At the writing desk he took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and began to recompose the letter that had pulsed in his memory.
“The President’s tragic death was a sad necessity, but it will unite the Republican party and save the Republic. Life is a fleeting dream and it matters little when one goes. A human life is of small value . . .” He paused, studying the words, proud of the flourish of his handwriting; he felt waves of delicious excitement beginning at the base of his spine, radiating out. The exquisite power of it transcended everything, the room with its pedestrian furnishings, the immediacy of time, the other reality of himself. Addressing the envelope to himself as Remington, he sealed and stamped the letter.
He slept like a baby, a leaden, dreamless sleep, and wakened ravenously hungry. He showered, shaved and carefully applied his wig, moustache and straggly beard. He put on khaki pants, a khaki shirt and workman’s shoes. He moved close to the smiling image in the mirror.
“I am a stalwart of the stalwarts,” he whispered, watching his breath patterns on the glass.
Once more he checked the revolver, making sure that the cartridges were in their proper places. He buffed the pearl handle against his pants, then pointed the gun toward his image in the dresser mirror.
“The President’s nomination was an act of God. His election was an act of God. His removal is an act of God.”
He felt a tingle of pleasure in his crotch, then put the gun in his left hip pocket. He must, he knew, follow the pattern exactly, as Guiteau had done on that fateful morning.
The air was still crisp, but the sun was already a brilliant glow behind the Capitol in the distance as he walked leisurely through the deserted streets, past the East Gate of the White House in which the President and his family slumbered peacefully. An occasional car passed by on Pennsylvania Avenue. Posting the letter in a mailbox, he crossed to Lafayette Park and sat down on one of the benches facing the White House. The sun, rising quickly now, threw long columnar shadows along the front portico. A spark of light caught the hanging brass lamp, transforming it into a burst of glitter. The panes shimmered like still waters as the sun’s rays washed over them.
Stretching, he put his legs in front of him, felt the reassuring weight of the gun and looked about, gratified that he was, except for the squirrels and pigeons, the only living figure in the park. When a bum who might have just risen out of the shrubbery sat on a nearby bench, he left and walked back to the hotel. He had a leisurely breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee and read the Washington Post .
What did Guiteau read ninety-nine years ago to this day? What was Guiteau’s state of mind? Had he found the hole of delicious calm, the eye of a hurricane? Had the newspapers told him that the vigorous, bearded ex-soldier would take off for the July Fourth weekend to escape the oppressive heat of the capital?
“More coffee?” a waitress asked politely.
He nodded, studying her as she walked away, annoyed by the patched imperfections of her net stockings. It was the first sour note of the morning. Abruptly he paid the check and left, determined to recapture the symmetry of the illusion.
By nine o’clock, he had parked the Volkswagen in a tight corner of a construction site where the workers parked their cars. He checked the hard hat stored on the back seat, patted the gun in his left hip pocket and set off for the mall
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